CHAPTER XI

SCENES AT THE CAMP

Reynal heard guns fired one day, at the distance of a mile or two
from the camp. He grew nervous instantly. Visions of Crow war
parties began to haunt his imagination; and when we returned (for we
were all absent), he renewed his complaints about being left alone
with the Canadians and the squaw. The day after, the cause of the
alarm appeared. Four trappers, one called Moran, another Saraphin,
and the others nicknamed "Rouleau" and "Jean Gras," came to our camp
and joined us. They it was who fired the guns and disturbed the
dreams of our confederate Reynal. They soon encamped by our side.
Their rifles, dingy and battered with hard service, rested with ours
against the old tree; their strong rude saddles, their buffalo robes,
their traps, and the few rough and simple articles of their traveling
equipment, were piled near our tent. Their mountain horses were
turned to graze in the meadow among our own; and the men themselves,
no less rough and hardy, used to lie half the day in the shade of our
tree lolling on the grass, lazily smoking, and telling stories of
their adventures; and I defy the annals of chivalry to furnish the
record of a life more wild and perilous than that of a Rocky Mountain
trapper.
With this efficient re-enforcement the agitation of Reynal's nerves
subsided. He began to conceive a sort of attachment to our old
camping ground; yet it was time to change our quarters, since
remaining too long on one spot must lead to certain unpleasant
results not to be borne with unless in a case of dire necessity. The
grass no longer presented a smooth surface of turf; it was trampled
into mud and clay. So we removed to another old tree, larger yet,
that grew by the river side at a furlong's distance. Its trunk was
full six feet in diameter; on one side it was marked by a party of
Indians with various inexplicable hieroglyphics, commemorating some
warlike enterprise, and aloft among the branches were the remains of
a scaffolding, where dead bodies had once been deposited, after the
Indian manner.
"There comes Bull-Bear," said Henry Chatillon, as we sat on the grass
at dinner. Looking up, we saw several horsemen coming over the
neighboring hill, and in a moment four stately young men rode up and
dismounted. One of them was Bull-Bear, or Mahto-Tatonka, a compound
name which he inherited from his father, the most powerful chief in
the Ogallalla band. One of his brothers and two other young men
accompanied him. We shook hands with the visitors, and when we had
finished our meal--for this is the orthodox manner of entertaining
Indians, even the best of them--we handed to each a tin cup of coffee
and a biscuit, at which they ejaculated from the bottom of their
throats, 'How! how!" a monosyllable by which an Indian contrives to
express half the emotions that he is susceptible of. Then we lighted
the pipe, and passed it to them as they squatted on the ground.
"Where is the village?"
"There," said Mahto-Tatonka, pointing southward; "it will come in two
days."
"Will they go to the war?"
"Yes."
No man is a philanthropist on the prairie. We welcomed this news
most cordially, and congratulated ourselves that Bordeaux's
interested efforts to divert The Whirlwind from his congenial
vocation of bloodshed had failed of success, and that no additional
obstacles would interpose between us and our plan of repairing to the
rendezvous at La Bonte's Camp.
For that and several succeeding days, Mahto-Tatonka and his friends
remained our guests. They devoured the relics of our meals; they
filled the pipe for us and also helped us to smoke it. Sometimes
they stretched themselves side by side in the shade, indulging in
raillery and practical jokes ill becoming the dignity of brave and
aspiring warriors, such as two of them in reality were.
Two days dragged away, and on the morning of the third we hoped
confidently to see the Indian village. It did not come; so we rode
out to look for it. In place of the eight hundred Indians we
expected, we met one solitary savage riding toward us over the
prairie, who told us that the Indians had changed their plans, and
would not come within three days; still he persisted that they were
going to the war. Taking along with us this messenger of evil
tidings, we retraced our footsteps to the camp, amusing ourselves by
the way with execrating Indian inconstancy. When we came in sight of
our little white tent under the big tree, we saw that it no longer
stood alone. A huge old lodge was erected close by its side,
discolored by rain and storms, rotted with age, with the uncouth
figures of horses and men, and outstretched hands that were painted
upon it, well-nigh obliterated. The long poles which supported this
squalid habitation thrust themselves rakishly out from its pointed
top, and over its entrance were suspended a "medicine-pipe" and
various other implements of the magic art. While we were yet at a
distance, we observed a greatly increased population of various
colors and dimensions, swarming around our quiet encampment. Moran,
the trapper, having been absent for a day or two, had returned, it
seemed, bringing all his family with him. He had taken to himself a
wife for whom he had paid the established price of one horse. This
looks cheap at first sight, but in truth the purchase of a squaw is a
transaction which no man should enter into without mature
deliberation, since it involves not only the payment of the first
price, but the formidable burden of feeding and supporting a
rapacious horde of the bride's relatives, who hold themselves
entitled to feed upon the indiscreet white man. They gather round
like leeches, and drain him of all he has.

Moran, like Reynal, had not allied himself to an aristocratic circle.
His relatives occupied but a contemptible position in Ogallalla
society; for among those wild democrats of the prairie, as among us,
there are virtual distinctions of rank and place; though this great
advantage they have over us, that wealth has no part in determining
such distinctions. Moran's partner was not the most beautiful of her
sex, and he had the exceedingly bad taste to array her in an old
calico gown bought from an emigrant woman, instead of the neat and
graceful tunic of whitened deerskin worn ordinarily by the squaws.
The moving spirit of the establishment, in more senses than one, was
a hideous old hag of eighty. Human imagination never conceived
hobgoblin or witch more ugly than she. You could count all her ribs
through the wrinkles of the leathery skin that covered them. Her
withered face more resembled an old skull than the countenance of a
living being, even to the hollow, darkened sockets, at the bottom of
which glittered her little black eyes. Her arms had dwindled away
into nothing but whipcord and wire. Her hair, half black, half gray,
hung in total neglect nearly to the ground, and her sole garment
consisted of the remnant of a discarded buffalo robe tied round her
waist with a string of hide. Yet the old squaw's meager anatomy was
wonderfully strong. She pitched the lodge, packed the horses, and
did the hardest labor of the camp. From morning till night she
bustled about the lodge, screaming like a screech-owl when anything
displeased her. Then there was her brother, a "medicine-man," or
magician, equally gaunt and sinewy with herself. His mouth spread
from ear to ear, and his appetite, as we had full occasion to learn,
was ravenous in proportion. The other inmates of the lodge were a
young bride and bridegroom; the latter one of those idle, good-for
nothing fellows who infest an Indian village as well as more
civilized communities. He was fit neither for hunting nor for war;
and one might infer as much from the stolid unmeaning expression of
his face. The happy pair had just entered upon the honeymoon. They
would stretch a buffalo robe upon poles, so as to protect them from
the fierce rays of the sun, and spreading beneath this rough canopy a
luxuriant couch of furs, would sit affectionately side by side for
half the day, though I could not discover that much conversation
passed between them. Probably they had nothing to say; for an
Indian's supply of topics for conversation is far from being copious.
There were half a dozen children, too, playing and whooping about the
camp, shooting birds with little bows and arrows, or making miniature
lodges of sticks, as children of a different complexion build houses
of blocks.

A day passed, and Indians began rapidly to come in. Parties of two
or three or more would ride up and silently seat themselves on the
grass. The fourth day came at last, when about noon horsemen
suddenly appeared into view on the summit of the neighboring ridge.
They descended, and behind them followed a wild procession, hurrying
in haste and disorder down the hill and over the plain below; horses,
mules, and dogs, heavily burdened travaux, mounted warriors, squaws
walking amid the throng, and a host of children. For a full half-
hour they continued to pour down; and keeping directly to the bend of
the stream, within a furlong of us, they soon assembled there, a dark
and confused throng, until, as if by magic, 150 tall lodges sprung
up. On a sudden the lonely plain was transformed into the site of a
miniature city. Countless horses were soon grazing over the meadows
around us, and the whole prairie was animated by restless figures
careening on horseback, or sedately stalking in their long white
robes. The Whirlwind was come at last! One question yet remained to
be answered: "Will he go to the war, in order that we, with so
respectable an escort, may pass over to the somewhat perilous
rendezvous at La Bonte's Camp?"

Still this remained in doubt. Characteristic indecision perplexed
their councils. Indians cannot act in large bodies. Though their
object be of the highest importance, they cannot combine to attain it
by a series of connected efforts. King Philip, Pontiac, and Tecumseh
all felt this to their cost. The Ogallalla once had a war chief who
could control them; but he was dead, and now they were left to the
sway of their own unsteady impulses.

This Indian village and its inhabitants will hold a prominent place
in the rest of the narrative, and perhaps it may not be amiss to
glance for an instant at the savage people of which they form a part.
The Dakota (I prefer this national designation to the unmeaning
French name, Sioux) range over a vast territory, from the river St.
Peter's to the Rocky Mountains themselves. They are divided into
several independent bands, united under no central government, and
acknowledge no common head. The same language, usages, and
superstitions form the sole bond between them. They do not unite
even in their wars. The bands of the east fight the Ojibwas on the
Upper Lakes; those of the west make incessant war upon the Snake
Indians in the Rocky Mountains. As the whole people is divided into
bands, so each band is divided into villages. Each village has a
chief, who is honored and obeyed only so far as his personal
qualities may command respect and fear. Sometimes he is a mere
nominal chief; sometimes his authority is little short of absolute,
and his fame and influence reach even beyond his own village; so that
the whole band to which he belongs is ready to acknowledge him as
their head. This was, a few years since, the case with the
Ogallalla. Courage, address, and enterprise may raise any warrior to
the highest honor, especially if he be the son of a former chief, or
a member of a numerous family, to support him and avenge his
quarrels; but when he has reached the dignity of chief, and the old
men and warriors, by a peculiar ceremony, have formally installed
him, let it not be imagined that he assumes any of the outward
semblances of rank and honor. He knows too well on how frail a
tenure he holds his station. He must conciliate his uncertain
subjects. Many a man in the village lives better, owns more squaws
and more horses, and goes better clad than he. Like the Teutonic
chiefs of old, he ingratiates himself with his young men by making
them presents, thereby often impoverishing himself. Does he fail in
gaining their favor, they will set his authority at naught, and may
desert him at any moment; for the usages of his people have provided
no sanctions by which he may enforce his authority. Very seldom does
it happen, at least among these western bands, that a chief attains
to much power, unless he is the head of a numerous family.
Frequently the village is principally made up of his relatives and
descendants, and the wandering community assumes much of the
patriarchal character. A people so loosely united, torn, too, with
ranking feuds and jealousies, can have little power or efficiency.

The western Dakota have no fixed habitations. Hunting and fighting,
they wander incessantly through summer and winter. Some are
following the herds of buffalo over the waste of prairie; others are
traversing the Black Hills, thronging on horseback and on foot
through the dark gulfs and somber gorges beneath the vast splintering
precipices, and emerging at last upon the "Parks," those beautiful
but most perilous hunting grounds. The buffalo supplies them with
almost all the necessaries of life; with habitations, food, clothing,
and fuel; with strings for their bows, with thread, cordage, and
trail-ropes for their horses, with coverings for their saddles, with
vessels to hold water, with boats to cross streams, with glue, and
with the means of purchasing all that they desire from the traders.
When the buffalo are extinct, they too must dwindle away.

War is the breath of their nostrils. Against most of the neighboring
tribes they cherish a deadly, rancorous hatred, transmitted from
father to son, and inflamed by constant aggression and retaliation.
Many times a year, in every village, the Great Spirit is called upon,
fasts are made, the war parade is celebrated, and the warriors go out
by handfuls at a time against the enemy. This fierce and evil spirit
awakens their most eager aspirations, and calls forth their greatest
energies. It is chiefly this that saves them from lethargy and utter
abasement. Without its powerful stimulus they would be like the
unwarlike tribes beyond the mountains, who are scattered among the
caves and rocks like beasts, living on roots and reptiles. These
latter have little of humanity except the form; but the proud and
ambitious Dakota warrior can sometimes boast of heroic virtues. It
is very seldom that distinction and influence are attained among them
by any other course than that of arms. Their superstition, however,
sometimes gives great power, to those among them who pretend to the
character of magicians. Their wild hearts, too, can feel the power
of oratory, and yield deference to the masters of it.

But to return. Look into our tent, or enter, if you can bear the
stifling smoke and the close atmosphere. There, wedged close
together, you will see a circle of stout warriors, passing the pipe
around, joking, telling stories, and making themselves merry, after
their fashion. We were also infested by little copper-colored naked
boys and snake-eyed girls. They would come up to us, muttering
certain words, which being interpreted conveyed the concise
invitation, "Come and eat." Then we would rise, cursing the
pertinacity of Dakota hospitality, which allowed scarcely an hour of
rest between sun and sun, and to which we were bound to do honor,
unless we would offend our entertainers. This necessity was
particularly burdensome to me, as I was scarcely able to walk, from
the effects of illness, and was of course poorly qualified to dispose
of twenty meals a day. Of these sumptuous banquets I gave a specimen
in a former chapter, where the tragical fate of the little dog was
chronicled. So bounteous an entertainment looks like an outgushing
of good will; but doubtless one-half at least of our kind hosts, had
they met us alone and unarmed on the prairie, would have robbed us of
our horses, and perchance have bestowed an arrow upon us beside.
Trust not an Indian. Let your rifle be ever in your hand. Wear next
your heart the old chivalric motto SEMPER PARATUS.

One morning we were summoned to the lodge of an old man, in good
truth the Nestor of his tribe. We found him half sitting, half
reclining on a pile of buffalo robes; his long hair, jet-black even
now, though he had seen some eighty winters, hung on either side of
his thin features. Those most conversant with Indians in their homes
will scarcely believe me when I affirm that there was dignity in his
countenance and mien. His gaunt but symmetrical frame, did not more
clearly exhibit the wreck of bygone strength, than did his dark,
wasted features, still prominent and commanding, bear the stamp of
mental energies. I recalled, as I saw him, the eloquent metaphor of
the Iroquois sachem: "I am an aged hemlock; the winds of a hundred
winters have whistled through my branches, and I am dead at the top!"
Opposite the patriarch was his nephew, the young aspirant Mahto-
Tatonka; and besides these, there were one or two women in the lodge.

The old man's story is peculiar, and singularly illustrative of a
superstitious custom that prevails in full force among many of the
Indian tribes. He was one of a powerful family, renowned for their
warlike exploits. When a very young man, he submitted to the
singular rite to which most of the tribe subject themselves before
entering upon life. He painted his face black; then seeking out a
cavern in a sequestered part of the Black Hills, he lay for several
days, fasting and praying to the Great Spirit. In the dreams and
visions produced by his weakened and excited state, he fancied like
all Indians, that he saw supernatural revelations. Again and again
the form of an antelope appeared before him. The antelope is the
graceful peace spirit of the Ogallalla; but seldom is it that such a
gentle visitor presents itself during the initiatory fasts of their
young men. The terrible grizzly bear, the divinity of war, usually
appears to fire them with martial ardor and thirst for renown. At
length the antelope spoke. He told the young dreamer that he was not
to follow the path of war; that a life of peace and tranquillity was
marked out for him; that henceforward he was to guide the people by
his counsels and protect them from the evils of their own feuds and
dissensions. Others were to gain renown by fighting the enemy; but
greatness of a different kind was in store for him.

The visions beheld during the period of this fast usually determine
the whole course of the dreamer's life, for an Indian is bound by
iron superstitions. From that time, Le Borgne, which was the only
name by which we knew him, abandoned all thoughts of war and devoted
himself to the labors of peace. He told his vision to the people.
They honored his commission and respected him in his novel capacity.

A far different man was his brother, Mahto-Tatonka, who had
transmitted his names, his features, and many of his characteristic
qualities to his son. He was the father of Henry Chatillon's squaw,
a circumstance which proved of some advantage to us, as securing for
us the friendship of a family perhaps the most distinguished and
powerful in the whole Ogallalla band. Mahto-Tatonka, in his rude
way, was a hero. No chief could vie with him in warlike renown, or
in power over his people. He had a fearless spirit, and a most
impetuous and inflexible resolution. His will was law. He was
politic and sagacious, and with true Indian craft he always
befriended the whites, well knowing that he might thus reap great
advantages for himself and his adherents. When he had resolved on
any course of conduct, he would pay to the warriors the empty
compliment of calling them together to deliberate upon it, and when
their debates were over, he would quietly state his own opinion,
which no one ever disputed. The consequences of thwarting his
imperious will were too formidable to be encountered. Woe to those
who incurred his displeasure! He would strike them or stab them on
the spot; and this act, which, if attempted by any other chief, would
instantly have cost him his life, the awe inspired by his name
enabled him to repeat again and again with impunity. In a community
where, from immemorial time, no man has acknowledged any law but his
own will, Mahto-Tatonka, by the force of his dauntless resolution,
raised himself to power little short of despotic. His haughty career
came at last to an end. He had a host of enemies only waiting for
their opportunity of revenge, and our old friend Smoke, in
particular, together with all his kinsmen, hated him most cordially.
Smoke sat one day in his lodge in the midst of his own village, when
Mahto-Tatonka entered it alone, and approaching the dwelling of his
enemy, called on him in a loud voice to come out, if he were a man,
and fight. Smoke would not move. At this, Mahto-Tatonka proclaimed
him a coward and an old woman, and striding close to the entrance of
the lodge, stabbed the chief's best horse, which was picketed there.
Smoke was daunted, and even this insult failed to call him forth.
Mahto-Tatonka moved haughtily away; all made way for him, but his
hour of reckoning was near.

One hot day, five or six years ago, numerous lodges of Smoke's
kinsmen were gathered around some of the Fur Company's men, who were
trading in various articles with them, whisky among the rest. Mahto-
Tatonka was also there with a few of his people. As he lay in his
own lodge, a fray arose between his adherents and the kinsmen of his
enemy. The war-whoop was raised, bullets and arrows began to fly,
and the camp was in confusion. The chief sprang up, and rushing in a
fury from the lodge shouted to the combatants on both sides to cease.
Instantly--for the attack was preconcerted--came the reports of two
or three guns, and the twanging of a dozen bows, and the savage hero,
mortally wounded, pitched forward headlong to the ground. Rouleau
was present, and told me the particulars. The tumult became general,
and was not quelled until several had fallen on both sides. When we
were in the country the feud between the two families was still
rankling, and not likely soon to cease.

Thus died Mahto-Tatonka, but he left behind him a goodly army of
descendants, to perpetuate his renown and avenge his fate. Besides
daughters he had thirty sons, a number which need not stagger the
credulity of those who are best acquainted with Indian usages and
practices. We saw many of them, all marked by the same dark
complexion and the same peculiar cast of features. Of these our
visitor, young Mahto-Tatonka, was the eldest, and some reported him
as likely to succeed to his father's honors. Though he appeared not
more than twenty-one years old, he had oftener struck the enemy, and
stolen more horses and more squaws than any young man in the village.
We of the civilized world are not apt to attach much credit to the
latter species of exploits; but horse-stealing is well known as an
avenue to distinction on the prairies, and the other kind of
depredation is esteemed equally meritorious. Not that the act can
confer fame from its own intrinsic merits. Any one can steal a
squaw, and if he chooses afterward to make an adequate present to her
rightful proprietor, the easy husband for the most part rests
content, his vengeance falls asleep, and all danger from that quarter
is averted. Yet this is esteemed but a pitiful and mean-spirited
transaction. The danger is averted, but the glory of the achievement
also is lost. Mahto-Tatonka proceeded after a more gallant and
dashing fashion. Out of several dozen squaws whom he had stolen, he
could boast that he had never paid for one, but snapping his fingers
in the face of the injured husband, had defied the extremity of his
indignation, and no one yet had dared to lay the finger of violence
upon him. He was following close in the footsteps of his father.
The young men and the young squaws, each in their way, admired him.
The one would always follow him to war, and he was esteemed to have
unrivaled charm in the eyes of the other. Perhaps his impunity may
excite some wonder. An arrow shot from a ravine, a stab given in the
dark, require no great valor, and are especially suited to the Indian
genius; but Mahto-Tatonka had a strong protection. It was not alone
his courage and audacious will that enabled him to career so
dashingly among his compeers. His enemies did not forget that he was
one of thirty warlike brethren, all growing up to manhood. Should
they wreak their anger upon him, many keen eyes would be ever upon
them, many fierce hearts would thirst for their blood. The avenger
would dog their footsteps everywhere. To kill Mahto-Tatonka would be
no better than an act of suicide.

Though he found such favor in the eyes of the fair, he was no dandy.
As among us those of highest worth and breeding are most simple in
manner and attire, so our aspiring young friend was indifferent to
the gaudy trappings and ornaments of his companions. He was content
to rest his chances of success upon his own warlike merits. He never
arrayed himself in gaudy blanket and glittering necklaces, but left
his statue-like form, limbed like an Apollo of bronze, to win its way
to favor. His voice was singularly deep and strong. It sounded from
his chest like the deep notes of an organ. Yet after all, he was but
an Indian. See him as he lies there in the sun before our tent,
kicking his heels in the air and cracking jokes with his brother.
Does he look like a hero? See him now in the hour of his glory, when
at sunset the whole village empties itself to behold him, for to-
morrow their favorite young partisan goes out against the enemy. His
superb headdress is adorned with a crest of the war eagle's feathers,
rising in a waving ridge above his brow, and sweeping far behind him.
His round white shield hangs at his breast, with feathers radiating
from the center like a star. His quiver is at his back; his tall
lance in his hand, the iron point flashing against the declining sun,
while the long scalp-locks of his enemies flutter from the shaft.
Thus, gorgeous as a champion in his panoply, he rides round and round
within the great circle of lodges, balancing with a graceful buoyancy
to the free movements of his war horse, while with a sedate brow he
sings his song to the Great Spirit. Young rival warriors look
askance at him; vermilion-cheeked girls gaze in admiration, boys
whoop and scream in a thrill of delight, and old women yell forth his
name and proclaim his praises from lodge to lodge.

Mahto-Tatonka, to come back to him, was the best of all our Indian
friends. Hour after hour and day after day, when swarms of savages
of every age, sex, and degree beset our camp, he would lie in our
tent, his lynx eye ever open to guard our property from pillage.

The Whirlwind invited us one day to his lodge. The feast was
finished, and the pipe began to circulate. It was a remarkably large
and fine one, and I expressed my admiration of its form and
dimensions.

"If the Meneaska likes the pipe," asked The Whirlwind, "why does he
not keep it?"

Such a pipe among the Ogallalla is valued at the price of a horse. A
princely gift, thinks the reader, and worthy of a chieftain and a
warrior. The Whirlwind's generosity rose to no such pitch. He gave
me the pipe, confidently expecting that I in return should make him a
present of equal or superior value. This is the implied condition of
every gift among the Indians as among the Orientals, and should it
not be complied with the present is usually reclaimed by the giver.
So I arranged upon a gaudy calico handkerchief, an assortment of
vermilion, tobacco, knives, and gunpowder, and summoning the chief to
camp, assured him of my friendship and begged his acceptance of a
slight token of it. Ejaculating HOW! HOW! he folded up the offerings
and withdrew to his lodge.

Several days passed and we and the Indians remained encamped side by
side. They could not decide whether or not to go to war. Toward
evening, scores of them would surround our tent, a picturesque group.
Late one afternoon a party of them mounted on horseback came suddenly
in sight from behind some clumps of bushes that lined the bank of the
stream, leading with them a mule, on whose back was a wretched negro,
only sustained in his seat by the high pommel and cantle of the
Indian saddle. His cheeks were withered and shrunken in the hollow
of his jaws; his eyes were unnaturally dilated, and his lips seemed
shriveled and drawn back from his teeth like those of a corpse. When
they brought him up before our tent, and lifted him from the saddle,
he could not walk or stand, but he crawled a short distance, and with
a look of utter misery sat down on the grass. All the children and
women came pouring out of the lodges round us, and with screams and
cries made a close circle about him, while he sat supporting himself
with his hands, and looking from side to side with a vacant stare.
The wretch was starving to death! For thirty-three days he had
wandered alone on the prairie, without weapon of any kind; without
shoes, moccasins, or any other clothing than an old jacket and
pantaloons; without intelligence and skill to guide his course, or
any knowledge of the productions of the prairie. All this time he
had subsisted on crickets and lizards, wild onions, and three eggs
which he found in the nest of a prairie dove. He had not seen a
human being. Utterly bewildered in the boundless, hopeless desert
that stretched around him, offering to his inexperienced eye no mark
by which to direct his course, he had walked on in despair till he
could walk no longer, and then crawled on his knees until the bone
was laid bare. He chose the night for his traveling, lying down by
day to sleep in the glaring sun, always dreaming, as he said, of the
broth and corn cake he used to eat under his old master's shed in
Missouri. Every man in the camp, both white and red, was astonished
at his wonderful escape not only from starvation but from the grizzly
bears which abound in that neighborhood, and the wolves which howled
around him every night.

Reynal recognized him the moment the Indians brought him in. He had
run away from his master about a year before and joined the party of
M. Richard, who was then leaving the frontier for the mountains. He
had lived with Richard ever since, until in the end of May he with
Reynal and several other men went out in search of some stray horses,
when he got separated from the rest in a storm, and had never been
heard of up to this time. Knowing his inexperience and helplessness,
no one dreamed that he could still be living. The Indians had found
him lying exhausted on the ground.

As he sat there with the Indians gazing silently on him, his haggard
face and glazed eye were disgusting to look upon. Delorier made him
a bowl of gruel, but he suffered it to remain untasted before him.
At length he languidly raised the spoon to his lips; again he did so,
and again; and then his appetite seemed suddenly inflamed into
madness, for he seized the bowl, swallowed all its contents in a few
seconds, and eagerly demanded meat. This we refused, telling him to
wait until morning, but he begged so eagerly that we gave him a small
piece, which he devoured, tearing it like a dog. He said he must
have more. We told him that his life was in danger if he ate so
immoderately at first. He assented, and said he knew he was a fool
to do so, but he must have meat. This we absolutely refused, to the
great indignation of the senseless squaws, who, when we were not
watching him, would slyly bring dried meat and POMMES BLANCHES, and
place them on the ground by his side. Still this was not enough for
him. When it grew dark he contrived to creep away between the legs
of the horses and crawl over to the Indian village, about a furlong
down the stream. Here he fed to his heart's content, and was brought
back again in the morning, when Jean Gras, the trapper, put him on
horseback and carried him to the fort. He managed to survive the
effects of his insane greediness, and though slightly deranged when
we left this part of the country, he was otherwise in tolerable
health, and expressed his firm conviction that nothing could ever
kill him.

When the sun was yet an hour high, it was a gay scene in the village.
The warriors stalked sedately among the lodges, or along the margin
of the streams, or walked out to visit the bands of horses that were
feeding over the prairie. Half the village population deserted the
close and heated lodges and betook themselves to the water; and here
you might see boys and girls and young squaws splashing, swimming,
and diving beneath the afternoon sun, with merry laughter and
screaming. But when the sun was just resting above the broken peaks,
and the purple mountains threw their prolonged shadows for miles over
the prairie; when our grim old tree, lighted by the horizontal rays,
assumed an aspect of peaceful repose, such as one loves after scenes
of tumult and excitement; and when the whole landscape of swelling
plains and scattered groves was softened into a tranquil beauty, then
our encampment presented a striking spectacle. Could Salvator Rosa
have transferred it to his canvas, it would have added new renown to
his pencil. Savage figures surrounded our tent, with quivers at
their backs, and guns, lances, or tomahawks in their hands. Some sat
on horseback, motionless as equestrian statues, their arms crossed on
their breasts, their eyes fixed in a steady unwavering gaze upon us.
Some stood erect, wrapped from head to foot in their long white robes
of buffalo hide. Some sat together on the grass, holding their
shaggy horses by a rope, with their broad dark busts exposed to view
as they suffered their robes to fall from their shoulders. Others
again stood carelessly among the throng, with nothing to conceal the
matchless symmetry of their forms; and I do not exaggerate when I say
that only on the prairie and in the Vatican have I seen such
faultless models of the human figure. See that warrior standing by
the tree, towering six feet and a half in stature. Your eyes may
trace the whole of his graceful and majestic height, and discover no
defect or blemish. With his free and noble attitude, with the bow in
his hand, and the quiver at his back, he might seem, but for his
face, the Pythian Apollo himself. Such a figure rose before the
imagination of West, when on first seeing the Belvidere in the
Vatican, he exclaimed, "By God, a Mohawk!"

When the sky darkened and the stars began to appear; when the prairie
was involved in gloom and the horses were driven in and secured
around the camp, the crowd began to melt away. Fires gleamed around,
duskily revealing the rough trappers and the graceful Indians. One
of the families near us would always be gathered about a bright
blaze, that displayed the shadowy dimensions of their lodge, and sent
its lights far up among the masses of foliage above, gilding the dead
and ragged branches. Withered witchlike hags flitted around the
blaze, and here for hour after hour sat a circle of children and
young girls, laughing and talking, their round merry faces glowing in
the ruddy light. We could hear the monotonous notes of the drum from
the Indian village, with the chant of the war song, deadened in the
distance, and the long chorus of quavering yells, where the war dance
was going on in the largest lodge. For several nights, too, we could
hear wild and mournful cries, rising and dying away like the
melancholy voice of a wolf. They came from the sisters and female
relatives of Mahto-Tatonka, who were gashing their limbs with knives,
and bewailing the death of Henry Chatillon's squaw. The hour would
grow late before all retired to rest in the camp. Then the embers of
the fires would be glowing dimly, the men would be stretched in their
blankets on the ground, and nothing could be heard but the restless
motions of the crowded horses.

I recall these scenes with a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain. At
this time I was so reduced by illness that I could seldom walk
without reeling like a drunken man, and when I rose from my seat upon
the ground the landscape suddenly grew dim before my eyes, the trees
and lodges seemed to sway to and fro, and the prairie to rise and
fall like the swells of the ocean. Such a state of things is by no
means enviable anywhere. In a country where a man's life may at any
moment depend on the strength of his arm, or it may be on the
activity of his legs, it is more particularly inconvenient. Medical
assistance of course there was none; neither had I the means of
pursuing a system of diet; and sleeping on a damp ground, with an
occasional drenching from a shower, would hardly be recommended as
beneficial. I sometimes suffered the extremity of languor and
exhaustion, and though at the time I felt no apprehensions of the
final result, I have since learned that my situation was a critical
one.

Besides other formidable inconveniences I owe it in a great measure
to the remote effects of that unlucky disorder that from deficient
eyesight I am compelled to employ the pen of another in taking down
this narrative from my lips; and I have learned very effectually that
a violent attack of dysentery on the prairie is a thing too serious
for a joke. I tried repose and a very sparing diet. For a long
time, with exemplary patience, I lounged about the camp, or at the
utmost staggered over to the Indian village, and walked faint and
dizzy among the lodges. It would not do, and I bethought me of
starvation. During five days I sustained life on one small biscuit a
day. At the end of that time I was weaker than before, but the
disorder seemed shaken in its stronghold and very gradually I began
to resume a less rigid diet. No sooner had I done so than the same
detested symptoms revisited me; my old enemy resumed his pertinacious
assaults, yet not with his former violence or constancy, and though
before I regained any fair portion of my ordinary strength weeks had
elapsed, and months passed before the disorder left me, yet thanks to
old habits of activity, and a merciful Providence, I was able to
sustain myself against it.

I used to lie languid and dreamy before our tent and muse on the past
and the future, and when most overcome with lassitude, my eyes turned
always toward the distant Black Hills. There is a spirit of energy
and vigor in mountains, and they impart it to all who approach their
presence. At that time I did not know how many dark superstitions
and gloomy legends are associated with those mountains in the minds
of the Indians, but I felt an eager desire to penetrate their hidden
recesses, to explore the awful chasms and precipices, the black
torrents, the silent forests, that I fancied were concealed there.